


desire becomes his god

by badbrains



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Developing Relationship, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29479185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badbrains/pseuds/badbrains
Summary: Stiles sees him. It is what Derek wanted, after all. Stiles sees that Derek is in no place to love, but he would like to be. Stiles makes him want to be.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 17
Kudos: 71





	desire becomes his god

**Author's Note:**

> ok so this is probably my last ficlet thing for a while because now i think i have written what i felt like i wanted to write. i have got to finish lstdow before it kills me LMAO. so you might not hear from me for a minute unless i get some inspo for more easy little ficlet things that ease the pain of these big projects. 
> 
> this is just like a pwp thing (i’m giving you guys a break from my pre-slash) i had in mind because i just rlly like reading sex scenes from derek's pov since he has a lot of emotional backlog, which can make the dynamic pretty interesting. however, i do not like writing sex FHAJDKGHDFHJ so like probably 80% of this sex scene is from twelve notes, which is a fic of mine that i deleted, so yea it is cheating but not really. i repurposed it and used it for something i liked better. reduce reuse recycle and all that jazz lmao
> 
> pls do not crucify me for my interpretation of virgil's work. i based my understanding of it off what i was taught through the excerpts we read in one of my humanities classes, but when i was rereading a couple of the books some things didn't match up exactly. which could also very well just be a translation thing. so pls do not flay me alive bc this is porn and i just wanna be edgy. let me live my dreams DHGJKJKGDHJK
> 
> the title is inspired by this line from _the aeneid_ : "do the gods light this fire in our hearts or does each man's mad desire become his god?" cause like .... isn't that just metal as fuck JKGDGHJGHEKHG
> 
> no beta so if you see typos just spray them with raid like a roach <3

In New York, while Derek tried to finish out his junior year, his English class analyzed _The Aeneid._

He was interested in it, in the detached way he was interested in everything, after. Like how Laura started taking local cooking classes yet all their meals still seemed to come from takeout containers. They had to focus on something, something other than the weight of what was missing. In some ways, he found the entire thing funny. The book. The basis of it, the fact that it was intended to be mocking, yet was regarded, then, as one of the best tales of heroism in existence. But, there was a scene - or, rather, a few scenes - between Aeneas and Dido that had him blinking back the flashes of flames. 

Essentially, Aeneas uses Dido, he makes her break her vows of celibacy for him, and then, after a few months, he sneaks away in the dead of night. He gets his men to ready the ships and he sails away without saying a word. Dido loved him and he shed her touch from his skin like it never mattered. While on his ship, though, he glanced back to find smoke rippling through the sky, tinting the starlight black. He looks back and he is met with the dwindling sight of a funeral pyre - a burning testament to his betrayal. Dido is on the shore, bound to a stake, her memory charred by his selfishness. Dido died thinking him to be this heartless, evil shell of a man. That is how he will be remembered by her. Forever. 

Derek, nearly ten years later, has never forgotten that. Has never stopped thinking about it.

He was a kid who took too long to grow into his ears, who excelled academically and thought it was embarrassing that his family was well-known. Laura was next up in the succession of Hale Alphas, training with their mother in her free time. Cora was the baby, wreaking havoc and getting cooed at for it. Derek never really felt _seen_. 

He thought he knew what kind of love he wanted, sought out something that made him feel like he was more than just a mirage, more than a body regarded in passing, more than someone whose memory could be blinked away like sun-spotted vision. In the midst of it, though, he interwove the two until they were indistinguishable from each other; love and want. That was his mistake. His desire to be desired ended with a flaming proclamation - _you get what you ask for_. 

Now, he can only hope that they remembered him as someone who tried really fucking hard to become something he could never be. He doesn’t want to be remembered as a killer.

Since then, everyone has looked at him with this cautious sort of fear, like they don’t really want to be looking at him. Because he is Derek Hale, the killer. Derek Hale, the man whose sister was butchered in the woods by their home. And he always had it out for her, didn’t he? He’s Derek Hale, the orphan who no one gave two shits about. Derek Hale, who went to New York and came back emptier than when he left. If they want to be afraid of him, he may as well learn to fill the shoes. He’s getting what he wanted. They all see him. 

Stiles, though. The way Stiles looks at him makes his skin feel like it is being peeled away, like he is splayed open and rubbed raw, like all of his secrets are displayed above him in huge, flashing letters. Because Stiles looks at everyone like he is appraising them, critically assessing their value, calculating their worth. He evaluates every aspect, honey eyes tracing the lines in your expression until he can recognize the next time you make that face, can assign it to emotion until he can read you without hearing a single word spill from your lips. If anyone should be feared, Derek thinks, it should be Stiles. You cannot hide from him, and that’s fucking terrifying. 

Derek smears a shuddery sigh into Stiles’ bare shoulder, lips sweat-slick and pant-parted. Stiles groans and slides his fingers into Derek’s hair, twisting at the strands and scratching his fingernails into the skin. Derek shivers, turns his head and releases a shaky breath that fans across Stiles’ throat. He drags his lips down Stiles’ neck for something to do other than stare into his face like he wants to, has always wanted to. He sucks at Stiles’ pulse and drops his forehead between the man’s collarbones when he moans and rocks upward, fingertips digging into Derek’s biceps. He is overwhelmed and ready to explode. Everywhere he touches is electrified, buzzing and white-hot. Stiles pulls at his hair, coaxing his head up. He breathes into the space between them, “Hey, let me see you.”

He wants to laugh at that. Wants to turn his head to the ceiling and smile or something. He wants to look Stiles in the eyes and tell him that he already _does_ see him. Has always seen all of him. And it is fucking scary. He wants to kiss Stiles on the lips and let him know that he is frightening. Derek wants to cradle Stiles’ jaw, press their foreheads together and whisper into his mouth, _I am afraid of you_. 

Instead, he just kisses his way down Stiles’ chest, surrounded by the quick rhythm of his heartbeat. He mouths paths from moles, sucks until Stiles is spotted purple. A constellation. Three in succession, like Orion’s belt. The huntsman, how fitting. Derek presses his forehead into the concave of Stiles’ belly, crowned by the jut of his ribs. He takes a moment to just breathe. To feel it, the burn. The fear. 

When Stiles curls forward, flushed red and eyes dark, staring down at Derek with so much swimming in the rings around his pupils, Derek’s helpless to how his throat sticks on a swallow. Clogged with words he can’t speak, nothing he could offer would ever be meaningful enough. He has never been able to say the right thing. Stiles keens high and loud beneath the press of Derek’s tongue. He has to bury his claws into the mattress, fingers encased by cotton-filling, to remind him of something rough, to give him something to ground him before he fucking slips away. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, overwhelmed where they meet, flesh so hot it feels like he is burning. Derek presses in, eases up so they’re face to face. So close that Derek can see where the flecks of black are scattered into the honeyed iris. Caramelized and sugar-coated. Sickly sweet and when Derek dips down to kiss him, it makes his teeth ache. 

Maybe this doesn’t have to be something he is forced to shed, to shrug off. Maybe, in his tale of heroism, he can stay. He doesn’t have to run. But, running is all he knows. Though, before this, really, Kate was all he knew. Coughing up the cindered grit of ash, the thought of love coinciding with the thought of death until they were inseparable. And this is - this is something unlike anything he has ever had. Derek hasn’t been granted many opportunities to hold onto things like Stiles, has never held something perfect without destroying it. 

When Stiles comes, it’s with his eyes screwed shut and his fingernails embedded so deep between the divots of Derek’s spine that it stings. Derek watches, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, he rocks faster, deeper. Snakes a hand down just to feel Stiles shiver, to feel him shake and whine with the aftershocks until he leans up to kiss Derek on the lips. Tugs the bottom one between his teeth, tasting Derek’s groan when his hips stutter until they stop. 

He thinks, then, while Stiles lies against the pillows, eyes shut and content, that he is not Aeneas. Never has been, not for one goddamn minute of this. Because, when Stiles rolls over and immediately falls asleep, his body language signaling that Derek can leave if he wants to, Derek realizes. He realizes he has always been the jaded lover, hasn’t he? Stiles snores lightly and he is sailing off, eyes ahead while Derek fucking burns. He peels the sheets from where they cling to the sweat of his body, drags his clothes on with a slump to his shoulders, going through the motions, lifeless like a fucking corpse. 

Stiles sees him. It is what Derek wanted, after all. Stiles sees that Derek is in no place to love, but he would like to be. Stiles makes him want to be. 

He takes a moment to just look at him, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the soft curve of his nose outlined in the moonlight, how the sheets bunch up around his silhouette. He blinks away whatever is starting to heat his chest, turning to ease out the window, silent so he doesn’t disturb Stiles. He walks briskly down the street, hands tucked within his pockets, where he is parked three houses over. Slips into the camaro that was supposed to be Laura’s and just sits there for a second, listening to the wind rustling the trees and the hum of insects. When he feels like he can move again, he clicks his seatbelt on. While driving away, headlights off so no one knows he was ever here at all, it feels like he’s been secured to a pyre. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> yell at me on [tumblr](https://iminsatiable.tumblr.com/)
> 
> also [this](https://open.spotify.com/track/09HK1zEnwMK5Ql2WVXczgk?si=lXl8aklsTc-jgsbK5_qsyA) is the song i was listening to on repeat while i wrote this (:


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